


here where secrets hardly keep

by kathryne



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Backstory, F/F, Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 08:19:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathryne/pseuds/kathryne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven interconnected vignettes about Helena, her locket, and the things in her life that are important to her.  </p><p>Will contain spoilers through at least 4.09; please check chapter headings for further information.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kent

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sophie Grace for beta and cheerleading duties.
> 
> Chapter One: no spoilers past general knowledge of s2.

"A tea _and_ presents? Careful, Charles, or I shall become terribly spoilt and insist on _all_ my birthdays being celebrated so lavishly." Helena smiles sharply at her brother. With Christina curled against her side, she isn't about to begin another argument over the shared literary venture of 'H.G. Wells,' but neither is she above getting in a pointed remark as and when she can. She suspects a combination of guilt and gratitude is behind this unusual celebration.

Charles shifts, uncomfortable. "You deserve it," he says grudgingly. "Now do open your gift before my niece opens it for you."

Helena lays one hand on her daughter's head. "Shall I, darling?" she asks, picking up the small wooden box. She shakes it gently; inside, something rattles.

"Oh, don't, Mummy, just open it," Christina begs, bouncing on her cushion. 

Helena never can resist Christina's excitement, so contagious – and she is, she has to admit, curious herself. She turns the latch and opens the box.

"Oh!" Though she was prepared to profess her delight regardless of the gift, she is truly taken aback by the elegant ornament that peeks from the velvet-lined box. She glances at Charles, shocked; he merely smirks and nods at Christina, who is grinning widely.

"Isn't it lovely, Mummy?" Christina tugs at the box and draws out the pendant. A thick strand of pearls follows, clattering against the wood. Helena holds her hand out and Christina puts the necklace in it. The pearls are cool and heavy. "I chose it myself, Uncle Charles said I might, and look, it holds a secret." Chubby little fingers – fingers that, Helena thinks, should have only barely learnt to do up buttons, much less had time to become so dexterous – deftly manipulate a hinge on the pendant. It swings open to reveal a small picture of Christina.

"Oh, my darling. It's wonderful. Thank you." Helena pulls Christina into a tight hug, swallowing against the lump in her throat and wondering when her daughter grew up enough to pick out such beautiful jewellery.

Christina pulls back, still prattling. "And see, that's a garnet on the front. It means faithfulness to family. So I'll always be with you!"

"You're always with me in my heart, love." Helena kisses her daughter's cheek tenderly, suppressing the urge to draw her back into an embrace before she can possibly grow up any faster. "But what a lucky mother I am to be able to see your smiling face all the time. Won't you fasten it for me?"

As Christina clambers to a standing position on the couch, Helena looks at her brother. "Charles," she says softly, regretting her earlier prickliness.

He gives her a rare honest smile. "It was entirely Christina's idea," he says. "I merely provided some financial assistance. It is exquisite, but," he continues in exasperation, "she has damned expensive taste!"

"Well." The catch slides home and Helena feels the locket settle into place below her collarbone. She kisses the top of Christina's head. "She _is_ my daughter."


	2. London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two: character spoilers only for 3.05, "3... 2... 1."

"Run, H.G.!" Wolcott shouts urgently. But Birnam Wood is walking, thanks to a stray segment of planking from the Globe, and Helena is in the way.

She claws at the branches that pull at her hair and twine around her neck, but they tighten mercilessly. Her Tesla gun is useless against the vegetation. She has flint and steel in her pocket and she'll gladly set the entire wood on fire – if she can only reach it.

It takes long, agonizing minutes to work her hand into her pocket, longer still to bring both hands together to work the mechanism. Helena can hear Woolly grunting and swearing; he seems to be having no more luck than she, but is at least still fighting. She scrapes the flint across the striker and the branches tighten. She gags, but strikes once, twice more, until she is rewarded by a flurry of sparks and a growing heat against her fingers.

The branches writhe in agony. Helena thinks she hears screams, but has no time to wonder: the tree that holds her is on fire and yet isn't releasing its grasp. _Didn't plan on that, did you, Wells_ , she thinks to herself, twisting away from the growing heat. _Oh, nicely done._ Her own sarcasm lashes her.

A smoldering branch breaks off and drops to her feet. Acting quickly, Helena kicks it behind her, against the tree trunk, before it burns out. As she hoped, it ignites the root system: the tree convulses, the pressure on Helena's throat suddenly lessens, and she is able to break free.

She falls to all fours, coughing, just in time to see a scratched and bloodied Woolly covering the planking in the new artifact-quieting solution with which she has been experimenting. This batch seems to work a treat: the trees shrivel up, fire and all, and shrink into the planking with a soft _pop_ that she feels more than hears.

Helena stands and staggers over to Woolly, clapping him on the back. "Good work," she manages through a throat raw from smoke and strangulation. Her hand comes automatically to her neck – and meets bare skin. "No!" she gasps, horrified. The branches – that last paroxysm – the sudden cessation of pressure – "No!" She drops to her knees, fingers searching frantically over the ash-covered cobbles.

"H.G.? H.G.!" Woolly's voice gains in intensity but barely penetrates her terror. Her questing fingers turn up one pearl, two, a scattering. She follows the trail, crawling, only for Woolly's hands to close over her wrists just before she grabs the boards that caused all the trouble, the artifact into which the trees disappeared. 

"Helena!" Woolly says sharply, pulling her up to look at him. "What on earth is the matter?"

Helena opens her hands and shows him her pitiful collection of soot-smeared pearls, all that are left of the last gift her daughter gave her. "My baby," she whispers, "my Christina," and falls against his chest, sobbing out her grief and loss as she has so many times.

*

They are placed on medical leave for an indefinite period. Wolcott appears to have cracked some ribs, while Helena has developed an alarming tendency towards breathlessness should she exert herself. The order gives her an opportunity to retire to her home and disappear while she grieves anew. Every time she reaches for the locket, as she does at hundreds of points during each day, she re-lives her loss. 

She discourages visitors, Charles included, so it comes as something of a shock when Wolcott arrives one day, unannounced. He is leaning on a cane and she feels compelled to invite him in. Ringing for tea, she settles across from him and hopes he doesn't intend a lengthy visit.

They make awkward small talk until the tea arrives; she milks and sugars his cup without needing to ask his preferences and hands it over. He sips, sits back, sips again, then finally pulls a paper packet from his pocket and sets it on the table.

"Woolly?" Helena asks, picking it up. It's light but not insubstantial; something slithers inside the paper as it tilts in her hand.

"Open it," he says brusquely, retreating behind his teacup. She's undoing the string when he adds, "It isn't a replacement, H.G.. Never that. But perhaps it will help."

The string comes loose and the package's contents fall into her lap. It couldn't look more different – a chain rather than pearls, the locket plain rather than baroquely ornamented – but Helena's hands shake as she opens it and finds Christina smiling at her again. She feels her eyes welling with tears and doesn't bother to hide them; small dots appear on the silk of her skirt.

She loops the chain over her head. It is longer than the pearls were; the locket tucks under the neck of her dress. This is not for public consumption: it will remain private, now. She is the only one who needs to know.

"Woolly," she says, nearly overcome, "you are a true friend."

"Not at all," he says, embarrassed, and she smiles for the first time in days.

*

Months later, she's walking the aisles of the Warehouse. She's meant to be doing her appointed rounds, but instead her fingers trail recklessly over the shelves, coming dangerously close to several artifacts. She's not focused on preservation today; rather, she is concerned with use. So many artifacts here on the shelves. Surely, she thinks, surely one of them can help her save Christina. She's concentrating so hard on reading each tag that the scent of apples barely registers.

At first she thinks she must be dreaming. Could it be that the Warehouse itself supports her quest? She dismisses the thought, but the scent remains, teasing her senses. She follows it, unthinking, until she stands before the boards from the Globe.

The artifact has not been tended. Was it her responsibility? She cannot recall, but the small shoots of greenery that poke from cracks between the weathered boards call out for attention. She makes a note to return with another dose of her quieting solution and is about to move on when the scent of apples intensifies, then disappears. She takes another look at the artifact, and then she spots it, glinting in the curl of a branch. Her locket.

Hardly daring to hope, she tugs at it gently. It drops into her palm, a little dirty but essentially unharmed by its ordeal. She works the clasp and Christina smiles up at her.

"Thank you," she whispers, pressing it to her lips. "Thank you." This is the only thing of substance the Warehouse has ever given back to her; it has taken so much. But for it to return now, delivered by the very hand of the Warehouse – it must be a sign. It must! 

The greenery shifts and she makes her decision. She will keep Woolly's locket – she daren't risk Christina's again – but this reappearance surely means that the Warehouse itself approves of her plan. She clutches the locket desperately. If this much of Christina has returned to her, then perhaps... perhaps there are other artifacts, hidden treasures that she need only seek out.

She tucks the locket into her waistcoat pocket. She'll have it restrung, once she finds the time. For now she is determined to continue her canvass of the shelves. Straightening her shoulders, she marches down the aisle.

Behind her, the nascent Birnam Wood rustles, the sound an ominous prophecy.


End file.
